Coming home (kindof)

Tuesday was rather absurd. I said multiple times (and in multiple languages) that we should spend the day walking around the city and head to the airport around 6 to catch our 11 pm flight. Eka was having none of it. We had breakfast at our hotel and then went out to the Spice Bazaar. We went out walking a little bit in the morning. I wanted to walk around the Golden Horn, but Eka complained that she had finished her shopping and so wanted nothing more from this country. Sooooooo we walked for only an hour. She wanted to go back to the hotel around 11 am, and I protested so we ended up sitting on a bench in front of Hagia Sophia for an hour.

I’d love to sketch a comic strip about what we observed while we were there. There was this really fat cat on the bench across from us, and people seemed to love it. First, a man came and sat next to it, petting it while he eavesdropped on the man next to him. Then he left and a girl ran up to hug the cat. The cat ran away to a man who was messily eating corn-on-the-cob, but the girl followed. She picked it up and carried it back to the park bench, where she continued to hug it. When she left, a food-cart worker gave the cat a pretzel. Then a very large couple sat down and the cat sidled up next to the man until it was under his elbow. The man was less than amused until his wife noticed the cat and scooped it up like a baby. Then he asked us to take a picture of the three of them. The cat stalked birds and pretzels as it was stalked by giggling girls and long-haired guitar players. What a saga!

We went back to the hotel around noon. We spent an hour drinking coffee there and then went off to the airport. That journey took 1 hour and the last of our Turkish money. We then had 10 hours to wait in the airport. I had a book, but Eka had nothing. I also had my laptop, an apple, and such exhaustion from last night that I was able to nap. Eka complained about having so much time, and I almost took out more money so that we could eat something or drink something or just do something other than sit at the gate. But then I remembered that we were wasting what could have been an extra day in Istanbul sitting in an airport because she couldn’t be bothered pretending to be interested in a new culture…so I didn’t take any money out. She sat and was bored; I read and was bored. It was ridiculous. Guess I deserve it for not standing up for myself and insisting we spend the day in the city. Oh well.

We got to Tbilisi around 6 am and I'm not proud to say that I then slept until 2. We went out for dinner with Eka's friends, but we didn't stay out too late. Then the next day (yesterday!?!) we left Tbilisi at 6:30 am and were in Oni by 1. I met up with Alex, who told me that Giorgi has gone off to the military but that he would be happy to race horses with me today. So today I waited...but he didn't come. I got a lot of writing done, but now I'm not allowed out tomorrow because the house needs to be cleaned for a New Year's party. I explained that a friend may bring a horse tomorrow because he couldn't today. Maguala said that if he didn't come today than I don't want to ride horses with him. I guess she has a point...if I was a Georgian girl looking for a husband it would be smart to play hard-to-get. BUT I'm not. I just want to race horses, even if the boy whose borrowing the horses from his cousin isn't sure exactly what day/time he'll come. Ummmm...Happy almost New Year!

Vipikrob

A bit of a strange day. Eka and I went to Taksim to finish shopping for gifts. Every time I’ve thought that we were finished, she’s suggested that we buy something for someone else. What a totally different idea of how to spend a vacation! We were back at the hotel by 4 and I still had a lot of energy. Then Yavuz facebooked and asked if I would want to meet again. Rogor ara! So first Eka and I watched “From Prada to Nada” with our last night of Wi-Fi. Then she went to bed and I went out to meet Yavuz (around 7).

We walked all the way to the bridge to Asia, stopping along the way to study. He told me about a palace, about Ataturk, about New Years in Istanbul…We talked about pretty much everything. Then he fed me mussels stuffed with rice (a very popular street food) because I didn’t know how to eat them. I thought back to when one of my students gave me chestnuts two months ago and I had to ask Matsatso how to eat them. At the time, I was embarrassed to be asking such a question. I’ve asked it so many times since, that this time was more hilarious than embarrassing. We admired New Year’s decorations and told stories and sat on a bus and watched the water of the Bosporus from a park until decided to go to one of the most famous hookah bars in the city. There we had rose-mint hookah and Turkish tea made with milk (and cinnamon? It’s apparently a regional special from Eastern Turkey). When we did decide to go home, we found that our bridge was closed. The nice policeman explained that we would have to walk to the next bridge. While we weren’t opposed to spending a little more time walking around Istanbul and admiring her night-lights, walking to this bridge required walking through a rather shady neighborhood. Yavuz admitted that—while he wouldn’t be nervous alone—he was a little on edge walking there with me because gypsies live there. It can be a dangerous place, he said. But we made it through ok. Maybe I’ll see him again someday. Maybe. It would be nice.

At the hotel, I had to ask for a spare key at the front desk because I left the one we were given with Eka and she was sleeping. The man at the desk asked where I was from, and we talked a little bit about how he was from Capadocia but had lived in Chicago for a little while. While there, he worked for Six Flags. He liked working there. He said that he would love to give every Turkish child a chance to go to such a place because there aren’t such big amusement parks in Turkey. He liked Chicago and he liked the people. But I was a little disturbed at one point because he said, “Only 4 people told me, ‘Go home and work there. Here there are Americans without jobs.” I apologized for such ignorance. What makes my country special (supposedly) is that it’s a land of immigrants. I doubt that any of the people who told my new friend “go home” are 100% Native American or related to the first pilgrims. How quickly we forget who and where we came from! My friend wasn’t upset, though. He said that he saw many people each day and that the ones who said such things were usually teenagers who didn’t know any better. I wish this consoled me the way it consoled him…

 He was a character. He was surprised by how young I am, and he asked why I would possibly want to live in Georgia. He became very serious and told me, “You should stay a little while if you want, but then you must go home and get married.” Suddenly everyone wants me to get married. And they say this in the same breath that they say I’m a child. Ummm…how about I spend a little time being single and independent and a young woman (gogo I can deal with, but bavshvi gets tiring after a while…). *sigh*

Merry Christmas! (So relieved not to have to think up a title!)

Merry Christmas! We got up early and walked to Taksim in search of a Catholic church. We got a little lost, but it was ok. We went to Saint Anthony of Padua church. I read that it’s run by Italian brothers and that one of the popes used to preach there. It’s also the oldest and biggest neo-classical (I think) church in Istanbul, so I wanted to go. What a surprise when we arrived! The congregation was mostly Phillipino women and Nigerian men. Not a problem, but very interesting. And now Eka thinks that Catholic churches always sing “Happy Birthday, Jesus” as part of their Christmas service. I have to say, it was rather fun to sing “Feliz Navidad” with such a diverse group of people and their equally diverse voices! After the service, Eka asked about the sign of the cross (Orthodox Christians touch their right shoulders first and always use three fingers together) and then for a picture with the crèche. Merry Christmas.

Being in Taksim, we went shopping after church. Last night, I had arranged to meet Yavuz by the tower (Galata tsikhe) between 12 and 1. We waited there for a big, then Eka got bored with waiting, so she went shopping alone while I waited by the tower until 2. It was strange when I realized that Yavuz wasn’t coming (so I thought…turns out he was there around 2 and I passed him as I was leaving), because I had to wait there for Eka anyway (even though I suspected she might be lost). Good thing I like people-watching. And of all the places to be stood-up, this was one of the more interesting ones so everything was ok.

Eka and I had salad for dinner again. On the walk home, she stopped and paid a man with a scale 25 cents (lira’s cents…I’m not sure what they’re called) to weigh her. She keeps complaining that she’s “big.” I keep explaining that those are called muscles, that they happen when one eats salad and exercises, and that they’re a good thing even though they’re heavier than fat. We walked a bit more, then we went back to the hotel and I was able to skype my parents and grandparents for Christmas. It’s the first time in a long time that I’ve had good enough internet to think about skyping anyone.

After skyping my family, I facebooked Yavuz. We arranged to meet up later in the evening. Because Eka was tired, it would just be us two. So Eka and I watched The Red Violin, which was excellent but in at least 5 languages so it required a lot of concentration…then I got dressed and headed out…

By “got dressed,” I mean that I put on earrings. Eka told me to make my hair pretty, and when I did she said that I’m a good girl for being beautiful. In New York, putting on earrings and twisting a braid into my hair hardly counts as getting dressed-up. Here, though, and with Eka, it’s the most dressed-up I’ve been in ages. Maybe I’ll paint my nails for New Years…people would be shocked J

Yavuz and I walked around Taksim, scoping out markets, talking, and just enjoying the lights. This was my first time being out alone (without chaperone, parents/host-parents, students, police, or curious neighbors) in ages, and I can’t begin to explain how sweet the air was. Yavuz and I talked about politics and poetry, friendship, cultural exchanges, language, beer, marriage, art…qvelaperi da dzalian bednieri viqavi! He walked me home around 1 and I decided that—beautiful as Istanbul is—breathing the night air of Istanbul for a few free hours will be what I miss most about my time here.

Christmas Eve in Istanbul

We’ve been saving our trip to Topkapi Palace for a rainy day. Today is Christmas Eve, and I was surprised to wake up to snow this morning. The snow soon let up, and it began to rain ever so lightly. So off we went to the palace…

I was delighted. I think this is the first place we’ve been that was enough of a museum that I could learn something about the history of the buildings while admiring them. It is also the first place we’ve been where Eka was very interested. We walked in with two tall men wearing turbans and two men in suits whom I think were their body-guards. A few people took pictures of them, and I can’t help but wonder if they were politicians I don’t know. We walked around a huge yard, trying to figure out how to avoid being in the galleries while the school groups were in them. First we went into a room where the sultan’s advisors used to meet before reporting to him. Then we began going through a series of treasuries. The craftsmanship was incredible. There was so much gold and there were so many diamonds, emeralds, and rubies! The bejeweled sultans’ possessions included a suit of armor, weapons, writing boxes, flasks, candlesticks, a bow and arrow, a cradle, thrones, flasks…and of course jewelry. My favorite piece actually was not made of gold, and it didn’t have many jewels. It was a throne made of dark wood and inlaid with mother-of-pearl. It was stunning. I should say that many pieces in the collection were not made in Turkey. They were either pieces stolen in wars or pieces given as gifts to the royal family.

There was one special treasury gallery that I’m still not sure how to feel about. The doorway was elaborately decorated, and there was a sign (next to the usual “no pictures” sign) asking that visitors please dress appropriately. It was the treasury of relics. If I’m to believe what I read, we saw Moses’ staff, Abraham’s turban, body parts of different saints, pieces of Muhammad’s beard and Muhammad’s swords. I have no reason not to believe, really, but I never in my life expected to walk into a palace museum and find myself staring at Moses’ staff. I’m just not sure how to process such a thing. This gallery was decorated the whole way through, and there was a man reading verses from the Koran into a microphone. His voice echoed through the different rooms of the gallery, even over the voices of all of the visitors (and there were many).

After the treasury of relics, we walked through the armory and then through a gallery dedicated to Sultans’ clothing made from Italian fabrics. We finished up with the sun still shining brightly overhead, so we walked out through part of the palace garden. I would love to see this garden in the summer. The part we saw was lovely even without the flowers. And even more than missing flowers, I just miss walking through parks. In Oni, I can walk through nature (with a man or with a handful of stones in case I meet a bear or a bride-napping party, or so I’m advised). I can sit under the grapevines in the garden at our house. But I miss being in a park, where I can read and people-watch and maybe chance to meet a friend. It’s different. There’s no need for it in Oni, but still…

Then we went off to a shopping mall in search of Eka’s favorite Turkish clothing store. It’s been a while since I’ve been in a mall. As if I needed a reminder that I hate shopping. At least being with Eka while she shops in interesting because she’s good company. But really…I hate malls.

We were home pretty early, but I facebooked Yavuz. He agreed to meet us for coffee, and we had a really great time together. He was very curious about Georgia and its language. We talked about the US and about all the places we’ve lived (combined, we’ve lived in 7 countries and speak just as many languages). We talked about university systems and history and food...it was so refreshing to have intellectually stimulating conversation again.

When Eka and I went back to our hotel, we watched “Heartbreaker,” which was a really cute French romantic comedy about a man who breaks-up couples for a living. She likes those goofy romantic dramas that I usually have no patience for, but we don’t get to watch movies often in Oni so having movie-time together each night is really nice. Then I sent a few emails (I so appreciate internet access!), and we went to bed before midnight.

Wie me, ra LAMAZIA!

We decided to visit the Hagia Sophia museum today. We went without a guide—in part because we’re on a budget and in part because we wouldn’t have known what language to ask for a guide in. English? German? Russian? Ra vitsit? I will come back someday and take a tour with a guide, but for now it was lovely just to be there. I should say that the guards were barely guards. It was a bit shocking to pay 20 lira to enter and then find that there were cats, pigeons, flash photographers, screaming children…everything one doesn’t want in a “museum”/ “church”/ “mosque”…and then there were very few signs to guide tourists around the huge beautiful building. We followed tours and eavesdropped, but what a poor excuse for a museum! Hagia Sophia is obviously historic and important…so put up signs and kick out the cats or else call it a gorgeous landmark instead of a museum.

The building was beautiful. In the very front was a “Madonna with Child” mosaic, and on the top floor were several beautiful golden mosaics. At least, I’m pretty sure they were mosaics. Maybe they were frescoes; I couldn’t get close enough to tell. We heard one of the guides explain that many more of the walls and ceilings have similar decorations, but the mosaics were covered with plaster as part of an old conservation effort and they have yet to be uncovered.

From Hagia Sophia, we decided to go to the Blue Mosque. This was interesting. First, there were no tour brochures in English. It wasn’t a problem; I took one in German and Eka took one in Russian. This was strange though: the only brochure in English was about understanding Islam and learning to respect it. Coincidence?

When visiting mosques, one must not wear shoes. Ar sheidzleba. I’m ok walking around in my socks, but Georgians tend to be rather particular about their feet. As in, they seem to have a national phobia of being barefoot or even walking around in socks. So Eka took slippers from the hotel and wore them into the mosque.

I was again a bit shocked: how many tourists were walking around in the center—where we were asked not to go out of respect for the people trying to pray—and taking pictures of the praying people! How disrespectful! The building was stunning. Eka and I just stood there, staring at the ceiling in awe. This was her first time inside a mosque, and she was very touched to see the small room in which a group of women were studying together. I have been in a mosque before, but it was very different. In Berlin, we went into a mosque with one of my classes. That mosque was small, plain, and somewhat hidden in the back of a courtyard. In Istanbul, the mosques are huge and ornate. This particular one is absolutely huge, and it’s famous for its decorative tiles and arabesque-covered ceiling. It was breath-taking.

The muezzins in Istanbul (or the recordings of the muezzins’ prayer calls) are not quite in sync. This means that whenever the call to prayer rings out across the city, each mosque starts at a slightly different moment. The result is something like a round. Most people don’t stop what they’re doing to pray, but we did notice that shopkeepers would turn off their radios. And a few shopkeepers did close their doors and kneel down to pray right next to their windows.

Later, we went shopping (I’m noticing a pattern) and then we returned to the hotel. Thanks to our Wi-Fi, we watched “Maid in Manhattan” and Eka was rather pleased. Kargi gogo var. Dzalian. I’m doing a pretty decent job seeing what I want in Istanbul, keeping my host-mother happy, and ignoring her comments about how the Turkish language makes the already unattractive people sound like turkeys. Anyone want to teach me how to teach cultural tolerance? Please?

Nationalism makes things complicated...

Today, our legs were a bit sore but we read in the forecast that this was supposed to be the last day of good weather for a while. At first, I wanted to take a ferry to Princes Islands. But with a rainy afternoon forecasted, sore legs, and a travel buddy who’s afraid of water (because she doesn’t know how to swim), I decided it would be better to minimize our boating and mountain climbing (on the island, we would then have hiked to a monastery) for the day. And maybe for the trip. So instead we took a ferry across the Bosporus to the Asian side of Istanbul: Kadikoy. We found a bustling shopping district, and Eka was delighted to get many people checked off her gift list. Being American, my ideas of gifts to bring home are a bit different from hers. When I think “gifts from Istanbul,” I think fabrics, spices, coffee, tiles, and lucky eyes…pretty “Turkish” things. Being from Oni (and buying for people from Oni), Eka sees all of those things as highly impractical. She wants to buy thermal leggings, sweaters, hair clips, hats, gloves, and tea for her friends, because these are the kinds of things that one can’t buy in Oni.

At first, Eka wasn’t thrilled about going to Asia. But we had a lot of fun and I think she’s glad that we went. While we were walking around, we saw many interesting things. For example, there was a graveyard with cat-houses in it. Istanbul has many many stray cats. It has cats the way Oni has dogs, but the Istanbul cats are surprisingly well-treated. People pet them and feed them, so they’re very fearless and fat. As amusing as I thought it was to see cat-houses in between gravestones, the Turks thought it was amusing to see that I was so amused by this.

As we continued walking, it started to rain. We passed a blue building with a huge picture of Ataturk on it, and I stopped for a picture…Then the rain picked up so we ducked into a café for shelter. We had baklava and coffee, and we talked about our impressions of the city.

I’m learning that the Georgians don’t think highly of the Turks; however, today we experienced a bit of Turkish “anti-Kurd” sentiment over dinner. We stopped for sandwiches on our way home, and of course the waiter asked where we were from. Eka said America, and he stared at her for a moment and then left. He came back with a scarf in his hand and started trying to explain to Eka that he wanted her to change her scarf. Now Eka was wearing this very pretty white and grey scarf that she had received as a gift from a German friend. The man pointed to my scarf and said that it was perfect, and then he said that her scarf is not welcome in Turkey because it looks Kurdish. Eka retorted that she likes her scarf, that it was a gift, and that as a foreigner she doesn’t have any problem with the Kurds. As the man opened his mouth to protest, I commented to her that—even with all the anti-Turkish sentiment in Berlin—no German ever told me to stop wearing my bracelet made of Turkish eyes.

Our first night in Istanbul, we ran into two Georgian men who live and work in Istanbul. We had tea with them and talked for a while, and they were very kind. Eka was glad to speak Georgian, and they gave her their cell phone numbers so that she could call and arrange to meet up sometime before we leave. As an American, I would have jumped on that opportunity. But Georgian women (or maybe just Rachulian women) are very shy about such things, so we probably won’t see them again. That day, Eka had been a little put off by how many shop-keepers guessed that she was Turkish. Then when we talked to these men, they commented that the people in Istanbul don’t like people from the Caucuses. Considering the history that the Turks have with the Armenians (which, to be fair, I know only a little about), maybe there is some truth in this. However, Eka has stopped wearing so much make-up so that she doesn’t look as dark. Now people don’t guess that she’s Turkish anymore; they guess that she’s Italian almost every time. When people ask where we’re from, she says America. She told her mom about this over the phone and the explanation she gave translates to “People here must not know I’m Georgian. They’ll kill a Georgian. They really don’t like us!” Where on Earth she got that idea, I haven’t a clue. One shopkeeper told her today that her face doesn’t look American, and I will admit that I was a little angry about such a comment because it’s total nonsense. I’m rather uncomfortable, though. How can she walk around disliking a people for disliking her people when she isn’t taking the chance to know them or giving them a chance to really know her?!? It makes no sense.

First Full Day

Today we had beautiful sunny weather, so we went walking. The European side of Istanbul has two sides. It’s divided by the “Golden Horn,” so today we walked across the bridge to the Northern part of the European half of Istanbul. To get to the bridge, we walked through both the Grand Bazaar and the Spice Bazaar. Then, on the bridge, we passed many many fishermen…and one burqua’d fisherwoman. I wish I had taken a picture…

We went to Galata tower, but we decided not to go up. Then we got lost looking for Taksim…It was ok, though, because we ended up walking past a university with a sculpture park (I was very interested!) and through an old mosque. Then we took the tram back to our side of the bridge. We went shopping for gifts, ate salads again, and drank (free!) coffee at our hotel. We were back at the hotel fairly early, but I’m not feeling sick anymore so everything is goooood! The hotel has breakfast every morning and tea/coffee the rest of the time in a room on the very top floor. From there (as from our bedroom, remarkably) one can sit and look out on the Sea of Marmara. It’s beautiful.

I took another hot shower after our coffee. Then I found “The Butter Battle Book” on YouTube J The internet won’t let me upload pictures, but it’s nice to have facebook and Google somewhat regularly. And Eka can look up city guides in Georgian! Which, to be honest, is something I never considered before: if one speaks a lesser-known language and lives in a country that people weren’t able to freely travel from until recently, it must be very difficult to find travel advice. Eka can manage in Russian and German, but it’s still nice to have resources in one’s native tongue.

And it would be nice to have enough internet to share photos with you.

Istanbulshi vart!

Flew to Istanbul. The flight was nice and easy, but Eka was upset because she was hung-over and the weather was rainy. What do I even say to that? She said she doesn’t find the people here interesting (already?). I’m worried; this city interests me very much and I want to enjoy this holiday. If I can be optimistic after being groped as soon as we got onto the tram from the airport, then surely she can deal with a hangover and give the city a chance.

We were really early at the hotel, but Eka was tired so the nice man working at the desk let us go upstairs for coffee and breakfast while we waited for our room. Then he got us into our room an hour early, which I appreciated. When we got to our room, I showered while Eka napped. Then I enjoyed finally having internet while she continued to nap.

Our hotel is called “Deniz Houses” and we both rather like it. I suppose our room is a bit loud if you’re the kind of traveler who isn’t dead-tired when you return to the hotel at the end of the day…but since we both sleep very soundly, the train outside doesn’t bother us much. We like the breakfast and the Wi-Fi; we like the hot water and the kind people and the view of the sea. The room was cheap and the hotel is just behind the Blue Mosque. What more could we ask for?

Ghame

When Eka woke up we went out walking… We walked along the water for quite some time. To our left was an old city wall, and to our right were a highway and the Sea of Marmara (then the Bosporus). We had a nice walk as I got my bearings. Eka can’t navigate by landmarks, memory, or the sun, so I’m going to have to learn my way around quickly in order to become our navigator. Pretty sure I can do it.

We walked through the Spice Bazaar for a little while, and I think Eka liked it. She’s a bit down on Turkey—on the people and the language and Istanbul—but she likes the shops and she likes when the shop-keepers ask if she’s Italian. Maybe she’ll warm up to this place.

The favorite game of the shop-keepers here seems to be “Where are you from?” For Eka, they keep guessing Turkish, Spanish and Italian. For me they usually guess French, but one man did guess Romanian. I’m (for some reason) amused and pleased when people can’t immediately pick me out as American. It’s nice to be able to blend in a bit. The poor shopkeepers also like to guess how Eka and I came to be travelling together. They can’t decide if we’re sisters or if she’s my mother…

We found a salad restaurant for dinner. I’m still feeling a little sick, but with the walking and the fresh veggies (and the lack of bread/wine/vodka/fried things) I’m sure I’ll feel better soon. Da ra kargi iqneba!

The muezzin just sounded the call to prayer. Eka asked me what the English word for muezzin is, and I responded that we don’t have one so we use the Arabic word. Like we do for “marshutka.” She then informed me that “marshutka” is actually derived from the Russian word “marshut” which means “way.” I'm so glad to be learning. I’m excited. Please let this go well! Please please!

There’s a “learn English” program on television. It’s actually pretty good; Georgia should consider making something like it. I’d be willing to help…

Leaving Oni for a while...

Saturday there was an earthquake—the second since I arrived in Oni. The day was generally busy. I packed for Istanbul, celebrated Barbaroba and celebrated Giorgi’s birthday. Barbaroba is Saint Barbara’s day. The night before, people put new ornaments on their New Year’s trees. Then, early in the morning, the “first foot” stumrad modis. It has been decided in advance that a close friend or neighbor will be the “first foot,” and if he or she is the first guest of Barbaroba then the family will have good luck for the New Year. It is tradition to eat pumpkin and lobiani on this holiday, and people give each other (and especially children) a lot of candy (milk-free because they’re in the middle of their big Christmas fast). The holiday is about peace, friendship, and hope for the New Year. It is also a special day for children, and people give children small gifts. When I went shopping for Giorgi’s birthday present, the shop-keepers wouldn’t let me pay for it…which probably has something to do with the way the women here refer to me as bavshvi (child).  They also gave me a piece of chocolate and a glass of wine. These things would just never happen at Waterloo!

I went to visit Keti for a little while. I just wanted to see her before leaving for my trip; however, I soon realized that going visiting something people do to celebrate Barbaroba. I like this holiday. Keti and I talked about the evolution of Georgian, which is always fascinating. She has more exposure to local languages than I do, and so she can tell me which words come from Russian, Persian, Turkish, old Iranian, etc.

Later, my family went to Giorgi’s birthday supra. We arrived late and left early. At the time, I wanted to stay longer. Now I’m glad we didn’t. The one horn of wine that I drank left me sicker than I’ve been in years. I actually bought medicine (which is something I really only do when desperate)! Aside from realizing after the fact that the wine was bad, I also realized belatedly that the stuffed animal I gave Gio as a present is actually a New Year’s toy. It’s a dragon. I just thought it was cute, but Matsatso told me that the Georgians personify the old year as a rabbit and the New Year as a dragon (which, I think, eats the rabbit…).

Yesterday, Eka and I spent the day in a marshutka coming to Tbilisi. We’re staying with a friend of hers here. We watched an Indian film dubbed in Russian, went out to dinner with her friends (who were offended that I wasn’t eating even though I explained that I really am too sick to eat), and admired the Christmas lights.

Aside from being violently ill, this has been lovely. In a bit, we’re going to go walk around the city and run some errands. I’ve realized that Eka likes slow mornings. She packed a lot of pretty clothes and make-up…as opposed to my two-pairs-of-jeans-and-sneakers approach to packing. This will be an interesting trip. Although—to think of it—when one considers that I ripped one of my pairs of jeans yesterday, maybe a middle way makes more sense…

I want to photograph these buildings before we leave…

Mere

About that walking around that I wanted…oh well. I should know better than to hold anyone to promises made in translation. We went to the place where the post office used to be, but there was no post anymore. Actually, the whole building was in the process of being gutted, so we stood there in confusion and awe. Then Eka called her uncle. He picked us up with his car and brought us to the place where the post office is now. The lady wanted 27 gel to mail 6 Christmas postcards to America. I told her that they could all go in one envelope, and then she charged me 7 gel instead. Ridiculous. I can imagine many things, but a country that wants to join the EU that doesn’t have a postal system…that’s a bit ridiculous. My postcards will arrive in 3 weeks. Ridiculous.

Then Eka’s uncle drove us to her aunt’s home (he didn’t stay). The home was like I imagine mine will someday be: books, eclectic decorations arranged with care, a piano, a big table for guests, and tea already waiting for us. Eka spent the whole time on the phone, and her aunt was upset both by this and by the fact that I wasn’t eating (still sick here!).

The concept of not eating is foreign here. I’m sick! I can’t eat! (They have different forms of negation for things one chooses not to do and things one is unable to do due to external causes) (PS That’s a super difficult sentence for ESL studentsL) I keep insisting “ver shemidzlia!” but there’s constant pressure. “Eat! Drink! You must!” I tried explaining that the company made me happier than food ever could, but they don’t get it. There was so much pressure that I felt violated. This is my body we’re talking about! My body! And if I don’t want to eat fried things and drink super strong alcohol when I’m sick then you can’t guilt me into it no matter how you try! But yikes. I love these people, but they make me be very firm and insistent. It’s not quite my personality…maybe this is part of that personal growth that I’m supposed to experience here.

The Start of the Holiday Season

Yesterday was quite a curious day. When I got to school, I was told that my co-teacher and I were invited to observe another teacher. We went to the 4^th grade Georgian class, which is taught by the mother of one of our 8^th graders. I was really excited about observing the class. I felt bad for the teacher, though. Two of the other observing teachers were walking around taking pictures the whole time. The teachers (there were 5 or 6 of us) were talking and calling out to the students and passing notes…they reminded me of disruptive middle-school girls. At the same time, the Georgian teacher had known in advance that she was going to be observed on this day. She had prepared her lesson plan as a performance, and the students had done the same. I’d love to be able to sit in the back of the class some day when there’s a normal lesson, just out of curiosity.

I was a bit frustrated in an earlier class…just generally because the students don’t know how to study and my co-teacher somehow can listen to me teach articles for three classes in a row but STILL use them wrong when questioning students.

We got news that our children who competed in the “English Olympics” exam at Oni school scored among the best in the region. One of our 4^th grader did especially well…which is fantastic news for the kids and for our school. I’ve seen the tests, though. On the one hand, they were difficult for the level our students are at, so I’m proud of the kids. On the other hand, if our kids were among the best, I’m worried. Sure, English is just a foreign language that is just beginning to be seriously taught here. But…the books (up until now) have been bad and many of the teachers don’t know the language they’re trying to teach…Kids aren’t taught how to study or use models or double-check their work. How are they supposed to learn anything?

The end of the day was a little strange. I gave the 8^th graders letters from students at my mom’s school, thinking we could take a lesson or two to translate and then two or three to write letters back. Instead, my co-teacher took the letters and translated them to the class out loud. The kids were interested, of course. They thought it was funny that the American students asked if it ever snows in Georgia. They also thought it was strange that Americans don’t know khachapuri. I was amused by the fact that they asked me after every letter, “Is it from a girl or a boy?” I think they want pictures. They’re amused by American names and it makes me really REALLY wish I had brought my high school yearbook.

All told, it was a good cultural lesson for them, but they didn’t practice any English and I’m nervous about writing letters back. I was planning to have them write working drafts of their letters and then send polished copies after a week or two of work (the whole holiday-break in the middle didn’t strike me as a problem before now); however, Matsatso assigned them to write letters for homework…so half the class will come in next time with what they will assume are “finished” letters. Drafting and editing is a strange concept for them…at least in English class.

Then in 9^th grade, my co-teacher was catching-up on her attendance-taking for the day. So I sat with the students and we listened to music and talked for a while. It was good, because they actually had to work at communicating with me. Then I put the lyrics to “Sleigh Ride” on the board—leaving a bunch of gaps—and the students had to listen to the song to complete the lyrics. They like this game, and I like seeing how they work together to figure out the puzzle. It’s fun.

After school, my head teacher said she wanted to observe an English class soon. My co-teacher wanted her to come to a third grade class. Since today was my last day teaching before I leave on Christmas holiday, that meant we were observed today. Last night, then, I went to my co-teacher’s house. I was originally supposed to visit with Keti and race horses with Alex and get home early to decorate for Christmas. Instead, I made finger puppets while my co-teacher fried fish, and then we made posters together. I didn’t get home until after 8…and I had missed all the decorating. But our posters looked lovely!

Eka and I have been having trouble figuring out our holiday trip. We were going to go to Milan (my tickets were free). Then I was told that she couldn’t get a visa (partially true—partially a lie to cover up the fact that she tried to cheat the application process and it didn’t work). So we decided to go to Istanbul because we had a layover there on our original tickets SO it would be easy enough. Then my program sent me to their travel agency to fix the tickets, and the travel agency sent me to the airlines, and the airlines sent me back to the travel agency. Things just kept getting increasingly frustrating and abusurd and expensive until last night we decided we wouldn’t go. Today at school, though, I had internet and a printer and a working phone so I played with a few things and now we’re going after all (for the same as it would have cost us to pay the cancellation fees). Not having internet or a printer (or electricity…) was frustrating. Calling hot-line numbers and repeatedly having nobody answer was frustrating. Trying to explain why airlines have cancellation fees in two languages—one I semi-speak and one I don’t speak—was kindof hilarious in its strangeness. But it really wasn’t fun at the time.

The morning started out a bit rough. As we hiked to school, my co-teacher and I were talking about phonics and learning to read English. Supposedly, the Georgian alphabet reads easily because each letter only makes one sound. Maybe in proper Georgian this is true, but I’ve noticed that here people sometimes pronounce the “v” letter as a “w.” They do it all the time, with lots of common words, and I told my co-teacher that this is the only letter that I notice this with. It makes problems for Georgians studying English because they hear “w” as a lazy “v” and so say things like “wan” instead of “van.” My co-teacher got very upset. She told me that this isn’t true. I asked why people say “wie me” and “tkwen and “twilebi” instead of “vie me,” “tkven,” and “tvilebi,” and she insisted they don’t. I tried to remind her that she hears sounds in English that I don’t because she studies it. She got very upset and told me that I’m just wrong because she has a second degree as a Georgian Literature Teacher. I shrugged it off.

When we did get to school, we had our lesson. I tried to just stay out of the way so that Matsatso could perform like she wanted. Actually, though, I thought the teaching part of it went pretty well. In case I haven't said it before, I do actually think she's a good teacher. I get frustrated by linguistic things and by the priorities (or lack thereof) of a different educational (social) system, but my co-teacher actually does care about the kids and is open to trying different lesson styles. Of course, after today's lesson I was left thinking: maybe, if we always planned our lessons, they would always go so well. We ran over time—which is encouraged so actually it wasn't a problem for that class—and it felt like we were behind in the rest of our lessons all day. We would check homework, the bell would ring, and I would hand out the Christmas cards I made for the kids.

After classes, I used the school internet to buy my airplane ticket back from Istanbul, print all of our travel reservations’ information, and send the school’s report to the program head in Kut’aisi. My head teacher was very concerned about the fact that I am leaving before the end of school and missing the children’s New Year concert. She kept asking if my program knew about this. I explained that they originally bought the tickets for me, but she called to Kut’aisi to check. Maybe it’s cute that she cares?

From school, I went with my co-teacher to her friend’s shop. I was planning to only visit for a little while and then go see Keti once before I leave for Turkey. In the shop, though, there was a drunk man being belligerent and hassling Tatia, so my co-teacher and I stayed for a while to help her. Tatia is sick, so she was sitting by the fire. Matsatso stood in front of her and I stood so that I blocked way to our behind-the-counter area. Tatia didn’t want to call the police (because no one wants to make a fuss in a small town…) but the man didn’t leave. Eventually Tatia told us to just go home. I didn’t want to leave her, but she didn’t want to do anything to change the situation so what could we actually do. As soon as we left, I looked through the window and saw that the man was behind the counter. I was worried, but Matsatso said “He’s harmless” in a tone that reminded me that women here are used to dealing with these kinds of things. And Tatia probably knows how to take care of herself in a much more socially acceptable way than I do and that’s what’s important sooooo……sigh.

At home, I read and studied. I’m drawing mandalas about Georgian folk tales. I’m trying to drink enough tea that I feel good but not so much that I get teased. Giorgi came over to tell us that today he killed the pig we will eat for Christmas. I won a game of dominoes and Jumberi was very proud, because he has been my teacher for the past few weeks. On TV, a man with a beautiful voice (from Batumi, who just got kicked off of Geostari) sang “Kari kris da kris da kris” and a song from Jesus Christ, Superstar. Then Saakashvili gave a speech, pictured as usual between a Georgian flag and an EU flag. Now everyone is watching William Levy.

Tomorrow is a double holiday. It’s Giorgi’s birthday, for one. And it’s Barbara-oba…Saint Barbara’s feast day. To celebrate, people hang new ornaments on their New Year’s trees tonight. Then, early tomorrow morning, a neighbor or friend who is the appointed “first foot” comes. If she or he is the first visitor in the morning, the family and all who dwell in the house will have good luck for the new year. People have a lot of faith in the New Year here. It’s common to talk about how it’s coming and how it will make everything better. I don't know if I can believe everything will be better, but I'm grateful for the past year and looking forward to the new one. As a Georgian woman told me today, time runs whether we notice it or not.

I'm trying to notice it and use it and remember it and wash myself in it and fly along with it...

Happy almost New Year...

Just another Saturday

Wie Me! Today was Lasha’s last day here, so I got up early to say good-bye…and then I went back to bed for a few hours. It being Saturday—our house-cleaning day—I spent the morning cleaning my room and sorting out my laundry. Then I walked to Keti’s house. We baked apples and made blinis while talking about food; made puppet parts while hardly talking; ate her mother’s famous fried potatoes while talking about autobiographies and personal narratives; and then painted puppet parts while hardly talking. She translated part of her script to me the other day, and I’m really excited for her. Hopefully everything turns out in a way that makes her happy.

Seven hours later, Eka called to ask when I was coming home. As I walked home, I remembered times when I was younger when my mom would be upset that I was always out of the house. Meanwhile, I was upset because inside the house my sisters were in their rooms/watching TV/playing on the computer and my mom was watching TV/talking on the phone. For my mom (as for my family here), my physical presence is the important part. For me, interaction is more important (at home or elsewhere). I understand the other perspective better now.

When I did come home, everyone was worried about whether I was bored without Lasha to talk to. Jumberi was particularly worried. He kept coming over and trying to entertain me. First he showed me the medals of honor he’d been awarded by the USSR. Then he told me that in the summer he would take me swimming in the river if I know how to swim.

This was funny. He didn’t really believe that I can swim when I said I could. This was the third time today that a conversation ended with “Well, she is an American.” The first conversation started because I pulled my pocket-knife out of my bag to use while making puppets. The second started because I put butter on my bread (Georgian Orthadox ladies are fasting from meat and dairy at the moment). So the things that make me American are carrying a knife, eating butter, and knowing how to swim. Color me amused.

In other news…yikes the Russian and South Ossetian protests. I’m not nervous here…but I’m worried a bit for some of my friends who do things like move to Moscow and Saint Petersburg sometimes. Ohhh…

My little pony! (I wish)

Gracious!

This past weekend, my friend James visited from Batumi. Together with my family and Michael (the new English teacher in Oni), we had a supra on Saturday night. It was lovely. Then on Sunday we went hiking in the mountains, where we found a cemetery and an old collapsed church. I felt a little silly, because I wanted to ring the bell hanging from a tree amidst the ruins. I couldn’t reach it, but James could. Then I felt sillier because I asked him to ring it three times. No, I’m not superstitious. I just read too many folk tales.

Earlier this week, I had a few interesting visits with Keti. We finished translating a folk song (I posted our translation) and talked about British punk rock, but we also had a difficult conversation about refugees from ex-Soviet countries whose countrymen and women view them as traitors. I think, of course, that dissidents/refugees/mothers who flee a regime are never traitors. The government officials who so mutate the government that their people can’t breathe are traitors to both their countries and their people…Once upon a time, a “dictator” was a military leader to whom the people said, “We trust you so much that we give you total power in this time of trouble. We trust you to do what is best for both us and our country, and we trust that you will relinquish power when the crisis has passed.” Now a “dictator” is (typically) a mass-murderer (openly or secretly) who censors the press, harasses the people, puts thinkers under house arrest and subjects journalists to prison and torture. Of course that person is a traitor to his or her people and country. But a person who longs to run to a place where she isn’t afraid to breathe and where she can raise her children is hardly a traitor. 

On Tuesday, my friend Giorgi (who I thought was in Tbilisi) called to say he was back for a day. He was, but more than that he was back and waiting for me in Oni with his friend’s horse. His friend is the older brother of one of my students, which meant that my student was there too. Jemali and Irakli didn’t trust me to ride on my own. They let me on the horse, but Irakli held the reins and led me around like a child. Then Giorgi showed up. He trusts me somewhat, but not completely (I am, after all, a woman) so he let me on but then he hopped on behind me. This was a little better; at least I was in control of steering and halting. But then some men in a car stopped to ask first what I thought I was doing and then to ask Giorgi where he got such a girl. He was embarrassed (a response that relieved me, to be honest) and said that I wasn’t his. Then he said something to the effect of “What the hell, man” and we cantered away. It was wonderful to be on horseback again, but it was still a little strange. With a second person whose legs and weight I can’t control, I can’t steer or ride (at all) the way I was trained to. And here the style of riding involves holding the reins in one hand and a tree-branch-whip in the other. Not quite dressage...

I told Keti about this, and she said that once there were many horses here. Unfortunately, they all came from South Ossetia, and so now there are only a few here. She also said that in South Ossetia women ride, but that here in Oni the women are proper Parisians in manner and proper housewives in demeanor. So they’re scared of horses almost as much as they’re scared of each other. I mean…I have reason to be on guard around the men here, but every time I leave the house someone tells me that it’s a bad idea. Maybe these women can live their whole lives staying by the fire out of fear, but I really can’t. Keti tells me that people used to say horrible things about her because she wore trousers and boots, even though she was really a good girl in every other way they could want. Lasha said the other day that I should just live like the other girls here (and always sit at home and get married soon and start having babies) because otherwise life “won’t be easy and people will talk.” He doesn’t understand that living that way is also not easy and that people talk no matter what I do (things I’m learning…) just because they watch J.Lo music videos or American Pie and assume all American girls are alike. My point, I guess, is that this has all been a lesson in balance…staying myself enough to stay sane, but being quiet and docile enough that they somewhat respect me.

So then on Wednesday, Giorgi called to say he was in Oni for one more day. Alex (another friend) was with him, as well as Guja (a friend), Jemali (my student) and Irakli (Jemali’s brother). They had two horses, a big tractor, and some beer. I declined both the tractor and the beer, but I was delighted to be around horses again. Alex has ridden with me before, so he knows that I can handle myself. He hopped bareback onto his horse and I was helped onto Irakli’s. Then—still in my skirt and jacket that I’d worn to school—I set off at a nice easy trot. Soon enough, Alex was beside me and asking to race, so off we went down the street. I heard a few old women gasp “Wie Me!?!” as I went past, but it was glorious enough that I didn’t care. We had so much fun! And I was being a good girl that day and wearing a skirt and everything. We galloped to the end of the street, and then we stopped breathless for a quick minute. Alex smiled and then we turned around and did it again. Ra magari iqo!!!!

Today I went to my co-teacher’s parents’ house for fried fish. Then I came home to baby wine and a headache. Eka and I had been planning to fly to Italy for Christmas. Unfortunately, her visa was denied, so we’re going to Turkey instead. I’m actually more curious about Turkey, but we had already bought the tickets to Italy so this has been a bit of a headache. Like, it’s been a huge headache and everyone (read: my family here) wants me to fix things and no one (read: the travel agencies, my family here, the government program I’m here with) wants to help me. And I have no internet most of the time (hence the post-dated posts). Ugh.

I’ve memorized all the words to Aqvavebula  and am ready to start Suliko. I’ve promised to make sets with Keti and make French toast with my co-teacher (after the Christmas fast ends). Alex said we can go riding again soon, and his old high-school teacher invited me to their village as her guest this weekend (not sure if I’ll go yet). There’s a chance that a New York/Berlin friend will visit Georgia in January (although maybe we’ll go somewhere else, because I think the gossip if he came here with his mom and brother would really be too much for me to handle). I really miss cooking. I miss my friends, who keep writing nice things to me. I miss being able to walk down the street without thinking about who is scrutinizing my hair or my shoes or my jeans. But overall I am very happy here. I’m so glad that people take time to appreciate fresh fish, new earrings, pregnancy announcements, oranges, baby wine, and snowy mountains. 

Aqkhvavebula Aragvze Dek’a

Translation by Ketino Japaridze and Abigail Oulton

aqvavebula aragvze dek’a. nisli motsura mta-mta.

Deka[1] is blooming on the banks of Aragui[2]. Fog is flowing from mountain to mountain.

dardi mastsavle pshavlis asulo. emag taplisper tvalta.

Teach me sorrow, daughter of Pshavi. I swear by your honey-colored eyes!

dardi mastsavle pshavlis asulo. emag taplisper tvalta.

Teach me sorrow, daughter of Pshavi. I swear by your honey-colored eyes!

tsikhe gorobas[3], me st’umrad moval, ar geotsebi net’a?

On tsikhe gorobas I will come visiting. Might you be surprised?

shentan alersi mtsadian, kalo. q’opna mtsadia shentan.

I want to caress you, woman. I want to be with you.

shentan alersi mtsadian, kalo. q’opna mtsadia shentan.

I want to caress you, woman. I want to be with you.

da mere tundats, pshavlis asulo, shens dzmat shamach’ra khmalze.

Then, daughter of Pshavlis, let even your brother stab me (it’s of no account).

net’a vitsode rogor mit’ireb, glovis sevdian khmaze?

Tell me, how will you cry for me? Will your sad voice mourn me?

net’a vitsode rogor mit’ireb, glovis sevdian khmaze?

Tell me, how will you cry for me? Will your sad voice mourn me?

maghla bilik’ebs, mtebs da ch’iukhebs, raistvis stelav?

Tell me, why do you wear paths across passes, mountains and cliffs?

modi, viq’nebi sheni tsatsali. mtebi davlakhot ertad.

Come, I will be part of you. Together, we will conquer the mountains.

modi, viq’nebi sheni tsatsali. mtebi davlakhot ertad.

Come, I will be part of you. Together, we will conquer the mountains.

aqvavebula aragvze dek’a. nisli motsura mta-mta.

Deka is blooming on the banks of Aragui. Fog is flowing from mountain to mountain.

dardi mastsavle pshavlis asulo. emag taplisper tvalta.

Teach me sorrow, daughter of Pshavi. I swear by your honey-colored eyes!

dardi mastsavle pshavlis asulo. emag taplisper tvalta.

Teach me sorrow, daughter of Pshavi. I swear by your honey-colored eyes!

---

[1] a variety of flowering bush found in the mountains in the Pshavi region of Georgia

[2] the name of a river in Pshavi

[3] a special holiday celebrating a tower in Pshavi

Ras vipikrob...

The other night, I went out the front door to go to the downstairs shower, and there was a dog sitting on the step staring at me. I recognized him as the dog that usually sits in the street outside our house because Jumberi throws him bread. Still, it was strange to see him at our door, because the yard is walled in and both gates were closed. I stepped over him and just chuckled to myself, but apparently the dog is a bit of a problem. He’s Jumberi’s dog, and so the kind man likes to let him into the yard when there is snowy weather. He doesn’t like to see the dog sleeping in the snow on the street. However, his wife hates dogs and his daughter has a rule that no dogs are allowed in her house or its yard. I’m the only one who ever sides with Jumberi…poor man. There was a bit of an argument, and then he shuffled outside to chase away the dog, grinning to himself as both women yelled after him. Oh my.

There are these cars around town that I have been calling jeeps, to my co-teacher’s dismay. After this morning, I will never make that mistake again. My co-teacher pulled up to the car-stop in the passenger seat of one of these cars, and she waved for me to climb in. I’m pretty sure the whole car was just the tires, the metal frame, the windshield, and the engine. This was a bare-minimum vehicle. But, it sped through the snow and up the icy mountain road to my school with no trouble at all. I was impressed. My co-teacher told me again that these cars are stronger than jeeps. We’ve decided to say that they’re jeeps’ Russian cousins. I think I like them.

Because today is December 1^st, there was a special presentation at school about “SPIDS.” Though the transliteration of the Georgian acronym is actually “ShPIDS,” it is pronounced “speeds.” Of course, this is the Georgian acronym for AIDS. I was interested to hear what they would say in a presentation about AIDS in my small and rather religious school. The 7-9^th graders gathered in the biology room, and the biology teacher gave an introduction. She had students read about what SPIDS is and how it is acquired. She had students read about what its symptoms are and where there are high occurrences of it. I didn’t understand everything, but I understood the part where she said it started with people eating bad meat in Africa. She mentioned that it can be spread through use of dirty needles and through homosexuality (although I didn’t hear mention of the fact that it can be spread through sex between heterosexual couples too…maybe more relevant in a place where visiting prostitutes is common for many men). She warned the girls that they should be careful when they get manicures, and she warned the boys not to share cigarettes. Then she surprised me by saying that there is a very high occurrence of SPIDS/AIDS in Sanmagrello… a place I’ve heard is quite the tourist destination here.

After all the children left, Matsatso and I were waiting in the classroom. I noticed that one of our 8^th graders had left his jacket hanging on the door. He’s got a very relaxed personality and a good sense of humor, so I knew he wouldn’t mind if we played a prank on him. On top of one of the huge cabinets in the back of the classroom, there is a plastic mannequin used for talking about human organs. Matsatso climbed up and put Vaja’s jacket onto the mannequin, tucking one sleeve into the pocket to mimic the way Vaja usually stands. It was fabulous. Then we left for another class on the same floor, making sure that we were close-by when the 9^th graders discovered the prank and ran to tell Vaja. They kept saying to each other “Maybe Babuna (the gym teacher) was here…” and I had to focus very hard on not laughing and giving us away. Part of me does hope they figure out eventually that it was us, because that’s part of the fun. It was pretty great.

The reason we were able to stay on the first floor for so many lessons was that our upstairs classrooms were being decorated for New Years. The kids put up New Years trees, paper chains, paper snowflakes, and “Happy New Year!” signs. The classrooms look great, although it is funny to ask them about Christmas decorations and have them instinctually translate “Christmas” to “New Years.”

On the street after school, a man called out to my co-teacher. He was staring at me rather intently, and he asked her if I am the new German teacher. She said no as she kept walking, and I could tell by her mannerisms that she just wanted him to go away. Apparently, he’s the father of one of our students, and at 1 pm he was wandering the streets wasted out of his mind. No wonder the poor kid has problems in school…

Instead of going home with my co-teacher again, I went off to try again to search for Michael. I went to his house, and this time Ana answered when I called. So I met her, but she said Michael was still at school. She also said that I was beautiful and should visit her house anytime I want. But I politely excused myself and went off to Oni’s school. I walked inside and wandered around looking for someone to ask for help. I didn’t see anyone, but I did get to see how huge the school is (compared to mine, that is). Then, I ran into Michael on the street, so that worked out after all.

We walked a bit, and then I took him to Keti’s house. I had told her I would come and help her build her puppet theater. We walked in as she was trying to figure out how to break through a board without a real saw. It took the three of us, an ax, a chisel, a hammer, and an almost-saw to get the job done. Then we went upstairs to sit and talk and eat. I really enjoy her company, and she is the only one here who understands how uncomfortable I am sitting while a hostess prepares piles of food (that she probably can’t afford to waste but that we probably won’t eat half of). It’s refreshing to be able to talk about politics and religion and relationships…to have complex conversations with people who understand my language and the culture that I come from. The hardest part is always extracting myself so that I can get home early enough to keep Maguala happy.

This time, Keti told us the story of how she and her children moved to London. But I want her permission before I post about it.

There’s an exercise in the 8^th grade textbooks where students are supposed to decide whether words are the same or different. One of the sets of words was “to escape” and “to run away.” Instinctually, I think they are the same, and then I think a little harder and realize that most of my students’ parents would actually say that they are different, because one implies honor and daring while the other implies cowardice and abandonment of those who couldn’t leave. Keti said her son used to have nightmares every night about bombs and tanks, because of the war here. Even when they left, he had nightmares every night for years. Even now, she said, he yells in his sleep sometimes, calling for her because there are bombs. These are the kinds of stories that tear at my heart, but I think they’re the ones that most need telling. Or hearing.

On a slightly more cheerful note, Keti said that the government wants to turn her parents’ house into a museum. This would be great, because someone would finally have the means to properly archive her father’s manuscripts. On the other hand, the private house would become property of the government. As much as she supports the president, she isn’t sure she wants to turn over care of her childhood home (and her mother’s current home) to the government. Either way, renovation of the house will begin in the spring.

Michael walked me home, and then I joined the family here for orange cake. At night, Lasha and I were talking about things we want for our lives. He wants to study English for a few months by living in an English-speaking country, if he can get a visa. Then he wants to climb the corporate ladder, and in 2 or 3 years he wants to start a family. He was a bit shocked when I said that I would be happiest with a living wage doing something I like, that I don’t want to be a housewife and finding a husband is really not my first priority. He said that maybe I am thinking like this now because I am young, but that in 3 or 4 years I will have to change my mind. Because I need a husband so that I can have children to give my life purpose and care for me when I’m old. He also thinks it would be better for me to live with my parents until I get married than for me to be here living so far away totally alone. I’m realizing that, along with fear of cold, the fear of being alone shapes many aspects of Georgian life here.

One more quick observation, this time a linguistic one: people keep telling me that English is an analytical language. We need to know what is brother climbing, who something was told to, and why Aunt Rhody was saving that old grey goose. We have different verb forms for action that happened before now and for action that happened before the action that happened before now. If you know English, you can follow that sentence and it makes sense. We instill word placement with absolute purpose: “Manana bit a dog” is different from “A dog bit Manana.” We also put huge importance on our prepositions: “I am (a) school” is hugely different from “I am at school.” Georgian has the same word for “bored” and “sad,” for “must/should” and “he/she/it wants,” for “to the balcony” and “on the balcony.” In short, they’re linguistically prepared for ambiguity and uncertainty (which goes well with icy mountain roads, polychromic time, and dual-calendars). We, on the other hand (especially North-Eastern US natives) want precise details and careful plans. If German trains its speakers to pay attention (listening for the verb at the end…which Georgian has, too) and English trains its speakers to always give all the details, Georgian perhaps trains its speakers to expect surprises and uncertainty as normal. Is this training in duality something that has helped them keep their culture alive despite having the cultures of various occupiers imposed on them? I wonder…